


troth

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambition, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, F/F, Hand of the Queen Cersei, Love Cannot Save You, POV Second Person, Pining, Queen Daenerys, Targaryens Never Fell AU, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-09 20:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Her dress is her armor and you have known from experience that there is heady, heavenly power in removing another’s protections from them to see and touch and taste the vulnerability of the form beneath. Sometimes, your fingers itch to slice the layers of wool and silk and linen from her body. They say Targaryen blood runs hot; you would like to know it for yourself.





	troth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).



Winter has finally reached King’s Landing, the crows arriving with the weak, Autumnal sun to make the somber, solemn pronouncement. How it can be told and decided from one day to the next that this is Spring and that is not and now, oh now, it is Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring again, has always stymied you, but you care not enough about learning those secrets to storm the Citadel in Old Town to find out. They do not allow women to study there, as you well know. And though that may soon change, there are other places inconvenient to women where you prefer to focus your efforts. There was a time when the weight of your word was so slight that it matched the heft of a down feather caught on the wind. You cannot squander the power you’ve gained for yourself.

Because now you challenge Maesters and Whisperers and Coin-Arrogant Masters with impunity. You wear a downward-facing hand on your breast and you drip wise words into your Queen’s ear. It is everything your father has intimated it would be, this power. As he served Rhaegar after Aerys’s peaceful, unexpected passing during the late hours of the night of Daenerys’s birth, you now serve Daenerys and it is so good that some evenings you weep to think upon how far you’ve come from Casterly Rock.

There are other nights where it is not enough and you know in your heart that the entire world will never be enough. You could fit the continent in the palm of your hand, you could crush it in the curl of your uncaring fist, and all would know that it is you who doom them, and it would not be enough.

Sometimes, when it is full dark and the sky is blanketed in charcoal-black clouds and your Queen seems so very far away, locked in her own chambers, you think you could also weep for all the things you cannot have, all the sacrifices you have made that have led you to this place.

It is where you want to be and yet you are no happier for being here.

(That is not exactly true, but you cannot acknowledge that fact. It would only make you more unhappy.)

Winter has finally reached King’s Landing and you walk the keep with Queen Daenerys at your side. Her hair, pale as moonlight, gleams in sharp contrast to the near black of her wool gown, her one concession to the cold. The thick fabric climbs the marble column of her throat. It is severe. It hides all from sight. You have heard men call her prudish where she cannot hear, ugly, mocking laughter in their voices. The names of those men burn themselves in your memory. They become yours in the taking of the note.

When ill luck befalls them, as it inevitably does, it cannot be traced back to you. It never has before.

And for your part, you cannot help but disagree with their assessment. Her dress is her armor and you have known from experience that there is heady, heavenly power in removing another’s protections from them to see and touch and taste the vulnerability of the form beneath. Sometimes, your fingers itch to slice the layers of wool and silk and linen from her body. They say Targaryen blood runs hot; you would like to know it for yourself.

That she is beautiful and occasionally, charmingly naïve still, even after a few years perched upon the Iron Throne, has never tempered your desires.

She smiles, your Queen, and at you even, as you walk the corridors, speaking with you about nothing and everything. No concerns press her this cool morning and no supplicants have prostrated themselves before you in hopes of an audience. It is as close to a free day as the pair of you can have. Though you would like to revel in it, these gentle, quiet hours, you know there is always more work to be done and that no hour is truly gentle nor quiet.

Snow has not yet begun to fall, but with the crispness in the air, you know it is only a matter of time. The Queen’s thoughts must take a similar bend, because she lifts her palm as though to test the air.

“This is your first Winter,” you say. The words feel clumsy in your mouth. Small talk has never interested you and you’re only reluctantly competent with it. The braying noises of pointless chatter always turn sour in your mouth, even when you twist the tones as sweetly as you know how.

“It is,” your Queen answers, that smile of hers widening. “I’ve heard it can be quite beautiful.”

 _Not as beautiful as you,_ you think. _It will be a disappointment in comparison_. “This far south, the snows are mild. Prepare for streets filled with mud and slush. The gardens are sometimes pretty, but you would need to travel to the Eyrie or perhaps the Riverlands to truly enjoy the display.” You force a smile onto your own mouth. It is about as comfortable as a mask, strict and confining. “Though why you might want to go to either of those places is beyond me.”

Your Queen offers you a falsely quelling look, like she knows she should admonish you, but cannot fault your assessment. She has never much liked either place and prefers to remain in King’s Landing when she can help it. “I shall keep that in mind,” is all she says, biting back an even bigger smile.

You wish you could make her smile more, but it is a foolish wish, a girlish wish. A dream like the ones you harbored as a child.

But it is too late for smiles. It has been too late for years, when you first ventured on this course, earning the trust of the court as a Targaryen ward, growing close to Rhaegar and Elia—beautiful, mourning Elia, who still roams the halls, head held high with pain kept locked behind calm, gleaming eyes—and the children whom you could not allow to grow to adulthood. Viserys, too, is gone now, though more breath sighs of relief than mourn for him.

There is only Daenerys. And it has been by your design that it is so.

The final stroke is set to fall, prepared for the moment when every other piece is in perfect position.

You love her, your Queen, you have grown to love her—inconveniently, madly so—but love is not enough to stop you.

You are Cersei of House Lannister, but you intend to be Cersei, Queen of the Andals and Queen of the First Men. You intend to be Cersei, Protector of the Realm. You are the first of your name and you want so much more. You want everything.

Long may you reign.


End file.
